


Golden Locks

by NayaWarbler



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 08:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17557220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NayaWarbler/pseuds/NayaWarbler
Summary: Seven-year-old Beatrice asks her mother about the boy they call Marcus' son. Seven later, he makes his choice: to leave her, his best friend, the girl who loves him. Now, she has to make her choice. One choice that decides her friends, her beliefs, her loyalties forever... one choice that transforms her. What will follow for the girl who won't be called Beatrice anymore? Fourtris





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Divergent. Divergent is the property of Veronica Roth, and is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain from this, nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only. I do not own anything that bears a resemblance to Divergent or any other story on this site. Warning: This story contains gore and violence. Mentions of character death and suicide. Possibly graphic.
> 
> This story is also avaliable on ff.net under the same title. My ff username is theartlessrose.

"Mama?" She turns around, and I can see her holding a rag and wiping the dust off a pair of scissors. They haven't been touched in three months.

She walks over to me and messes around with the cabinet that I am sitting in front of. "Yes, Beatrice?" Mama slides open a keypad and presses a few numbers. My eyes trail her movements, just like they do every time.

5-2-7-6-3. The cabinet slides open to reveal my face.

My appearance hasn't changed much in the last three months, really; it's just me. I don't notice how long my nose is, or how my eyes are practically the size of my fist. No, I don't notice those things until later. Right now, I can be a kid.

She should block the code from my view, but she doesn't. If I wanted to, I could cheat and see my reflection anytime.

Still, I never look until it's time for my haircut.

"Beatrice?" I stop looking at myself and turn to Mama, remembering that I want to ask her a question. I know I shouldn't — curiosity is selfish — but I can't help myself. If I ask a question at school, the kids mock me and call me Erudite. If I say nothing, they call me Stiff. I have noticed that every time someone calls Caleb an Erudite, he cries, but he doesn't mind being called Stiff. I used to think it was because he didn't think of Stiff as an insult, since it tied him to Abnegation. He's always been Abnegation through and through, like he was born for it.

Right, school. Even though he is still in the age group of kids that go to school, there is one kid who never does. "Mama, you said that Marcus has a son, right?" Marcus is the Abnegation leader. He's just left our home after having dinner with Papa; Mama tells me they work together for the city council. Papa's been sad lately when he comes home from work, and no one will tell me why. I think Caleb knows. Caleb knows everything.

She runs her fingers through my blonde hair and grabs a toothy comb — it's black and has the letter N engraved in it, for Mama's name. Mama said it was from grandma. I never met grandma. "Yes, Beatrice. Marcus has a son." I notice she doesn't scold me for asking a question.

"What is his name?" I fiddle with the skirt of my plain, grey robe and try not to imagine a pink princess dress with puffy sleeves and sparkles like in the books Caleb reads to me before bed sometimes. He told me not to tell Mama, because then he will have to stop. I don't tell her.

Mama pries my hands away from the fabric, and I hold them in my lap like a proper girl. No fidgeting. Mama's comb is in my hair again, and it scratches my scalp. I don't move.

She tells me, "His name is Tobias," as she makes a straight cut along my hair. Blonde ringlets fall to the ground — they look so soft against the hard floor. I want to reach down and touch them, but I don't move.

"Tobias." It's the first time I've said his name, and I like the sound of it. It's cool, especially for an Abnegation. Much cooler than Beatrice, that's for sure. I wish I had a cooler sounding name like the Dauntless have, but I'll never tell Mama that.

Mama makes another cut. More rings of yellow. My fingers twitch.

"Mama?"

She sighs as she makes the final cut. "Yes, Beatrice?"

"Why doesn't Tobias come to school? He should be nine, right?" Nine year olds have to go to school, just like me. I am seven, but I want to be sixteen so I can choose — sometimes I think about choosing Dauntless. I still think I will choose Abnegation. Caleb definitely will.

Mama looks up and catches my eye in the mirror. Oops. She doesn't scold me for staring. Why? She won't scold me for vanity, or for asking questions, so why does she scold me for fidgeting? Mama pushes my hair over my shoulders, even on both sides. It falls to just above my belly button now, and I don't have to worry about sitting on it.

She gently grasps my shoulders. "Marcus teaches him. At home. It's called homeschooling."

He doesn't have to deal with the kids calling him names like I do, or go to Faction History. It's the most boring class. In that moment, I think he is the luckiest kid. "Can I be homeschooled like Tobias?" I like saying his name.

She smiles. "No, sweetheart. I'm too busy with the shelter during the day, and Papa works for the city council." Mama never calls Papa by his real name. I only know it because Marcus calls him by it: Andrew.

"But Mama!" I whine, grabbing one of her hands in both of mine. I watch the mirror girl do the same to her mother. "Marcus is a leader, and he still has time!"

Her smile falls. "I suppose you're right…" I can see her thinking — I imagine a hamster running around on a wheel in her head and try not to laugh. We aren't supposed to laugh, but we are allowed to smile. But why isn't Mama smiling? Can she not see the hamster?

"So is that a yes to the homeschooling?" I ask, squeezing her hand. As if she is in one of our showers during winter — they get cold, because we don't have hot water — she jumps, snapping out of whatever she is thinking about.

"What? No." She shakes her head, but that makes her hair fall from the bun. Quickly fixing it, she hurries to the keypad and flips it open. It's the first time I've seen her with her hair down. "That's all you get for now, Beatrice. When you see your father, don't ask him any questions. He hates that." She enters the code again — 5-2-7-6-3 — and the cabinet locks shut with a click. Suddenly, my face is gone. I stare at the wooden cabinet for a minute as my mother grabs a broom and dustpan.

The image is fresh in my memory now, but sometime in the next month, it will fade. I will forget what I look like, who I am, and I will continue to behave like I am supposed to.

I will be Abnegation, at least for another three months until I see my golden locks in the mirror again.


	2. Chapter 2

I run my hand underneath the dispenser, and a stream of pink liquid soap lands on my palm. Rubbing my hands together, I dip them in the lukewarm water that comes from the tap and watch the bubbles form. When I asked him about it, Caleb told me it was chemistry. I didn't ask him what that was.

The bathrooms at school have mirrors above the sinks — that's why I always watch my hands. Still, out of the corner of my eye, I see a blob of grey: my robe. I can't look; it's against the rules.

"Stiff," I hear a girl whisper. She's my age, seven, and she has a wide face and brown hair that comes down over her forehead, sticking straight down, making her cheeks look rounder. She wears black and white: Candor. Well, at least she's honest.

Another Candor girl comes out of a stall. "Shut up, Molly," she snaps — Mama said those were bad words — and comes up beside me to wash her hands, making the other girl huff and storm out of the bathroom. This girl is taller than me by a lot even though she's probably my age and has dark brown skin, eyes that match, and black hair that stops at her neck. I wonder what it feels like to have hair that short; Mama just cut mine yesterday, and it still feels long, even tied up in a bun. I can feel the weight of it pressing down on my head.

With my wet fingers, I grab a paper towel from the roll and try not to smell it. Damp, the organic ones smell gross, but Mama says they're better for the environment, so the Amity had the school put them in.

Amity and Abnegation get along just fine, but I don't like the Amity kids. They keep to themselves — most of them don't even eat in the cafeteria. They sit in the grass and take out their packed lunch boxes and eat their bread while the rest of us eat at tables like humans. We have a lot of things in common, like our shared idea that caring for others is important, but they are allowed to laugh and play, unlike us. It's not fair, but I stopped complaining after Caleb scolded me; I hate when Caleb scolds me.

I hand the Candor girl an organic paper towel when she turns off the tap, and she thanks me. Then, after wiping her hands and tossing it in the trash can, she turns to the mirror and takes out a box from her backpack, opens it, and starts putting green stuff on her eyelids. I watch, fascinated by this.

"What are you doing?" I ask. I've never seen anything like it.

She turns to me and laughs. "It's makeup. I stole it from my mom's dresser."

I don't tell her she looks like a tree with that green gunk on her eyes; she's the Candor, not me. "Makeup?"

"Yeah, she uses it to make herself prettier. I thought I'd try it."

"Why?" I ask. I should stop asking questions, but I can't help but be interested.

She raises her eyebrows. "You want to try?"

"No," I say, but even I can hear the lie in my voice. I do want to try.

"Liar." Darn you, Candor.

I take a deep breath. What harm could it do to try? "Okay," I say before I can talk myself out of it.

"Yay!" the girl says. "Oh, I'm Christina, by the way."

I reply, "Beatrice."

"That's a nice name," she says, sitting me down on the counter.

"I don't like it," I answer. It's the first time I've told anyone this.

"Why?" She fumbles with the box for a while before finding a little white stick and rubs it round the circle with orange-brown stuff. It sticks to the squishy part. "Close your eyes."

I do as told. "It sounds too…"

"Stiff?" She finishes for me, and I feel pressure on my eyelid. I jolt back, mumble an apology, and let her continue.

"Yeah, I guess." Stiff… that's the word. Beatrice is an Abnegation name.

She dips the sponge back in the orange-brown. "So change it."

"What?" My eyelids flutter as the sponge finds the other eye.

"Change it."

I pause. "It's not that easy."

"Why not?" Christina replies. Is she right? Could I be called something other than Beatrice? Suddenly, I think of Tobias and how cool his name sounds. I could have a name as cool as Tobias.

"Okay…" I mutter. "Let's say it is that easy. What would I change it to?"

She thinks for a second, pursing her lips. "Hmm… how about Bea?"

I shake my head. "That's sounds like bee."

"Well, we'll have to figure it out later…" she says, putting the sponge back in the box and snapping it shut. "Because I am done with your makeup."

I smile, thank her, and stand up. She frowns. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"You aren't going to look?" Oh, she wants me to see my reflection.

"I can't. I wish I could, really, but I can't."

"Why not?" She looks so sad now, like a kick puppy. I saw a factionless man kick a puppy once, and I got so angry that I tried to confront him, but Caleb stopped me. That was the first time I got scolded by him.

"In Abnegation, we aren't allowed to look at our reflection. We reject vanity." Every time I say that matter-of-factly, repeat the words of my mother, I pretend like I know what it means.

She hesitates. "I… I won't tell."

Suddenly, I am hit with the overwhelming urge to look. I've already let Christina put makeup on me, so why not take a little peek? If it was a hard-and-fast rule, anyways, they wouldn't make it so easy to cheat. "Okay."

I've never cheated before.

Slowly, I turn around, eyes trained on the ground. Christina's encouraging words give me courage, and I lift my eyes, raise them to the mirror, and gasp. The orange-brown doesn't make me look like a tree; instead, it brings out the blue in my grey eyes and makes them shine like stars. For the first time, I think about how I look. For the first time, I appreciate how I look. For the first time, I indulge in vanity, even if it is just for a while.

It scares me that it is the best feeling.

We walk from the bathroom arm in arm, grey, black, and white, confident, proud. For Christina, it's a normal thing. For me, it's a revolution. My heart thumps in my chest, anxious, but I'm the happiest I've been in a while. Only kids could go into a bathroom and come out with a friend, I think. And, for the first time, I am a kid. I feel like a kid. Right now, I'm not Stiff. I am me.

Caleb sees us. I smile and wave at him, my brother, and wait for him to smile back. He doesn't; his face contorts with rage, and he stomps over to me, grabs my arm, and drags me away from Christina into an empty hallway.

"Beatrice!" he yells, and I feel tears prick my eyes. I wonder, if they fall, will they be orange-brown? "What do you think you're doing! You can't be friends with a Candor! You can't be friends with anyone, in fact!" The tears stream down my face, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand. I look; they are clear, just like always. At least my makeup isn't ruined.

Then, he gets really quiet and leans in. His eyes narrow, and I see the fire in them. "Beatrice, what is on your eyes?" His voice is low, scary, and I flinch away from him.

"It's makeup," I tell him. "Christina put it on me. Isn't it pretty?"

"Pretty?" He yells, louder this time. "Pretty! Beatrice, you sound like a narcissist!"

I frown. What that word means, I don't know, but it doesn't sound good. "But Caleb… it looks nice."

"How would you know that?" he snarls, pointing an accusatory finger at me. My heart quickens, and I know I've gotten myself into deep trouble.

"I… I looked."

He's quiet again for a minute, and I start to think that he's not angry anymore. Then, I feel a stinging pain on my cheek and grab it with both hands. Startled, I look up at him and realize; he hit me. A sob builds in my throat.

"Go home, Beatrice, and tells our parents why I sent you back." I nod quickly and run, quicker than I've ever run before, desperate to get away from him. I don't take the bus; instead, I run all the way home. By the time I reach, my lungs feel like Dauntless' hot coals in my chest, and my heart is beating like it will jump out of me. I drop onto the front steps and heave, feeling the contents of my lunch rise up.

Mama opens the door — she's home early from the shelter today. She calls for Papa, who sprints over to me and carries me inside. I'm crying now, sobbing, and my cheeks still stings from Caleb's slap. I hold onto Papa's shirt as he sets me down on the couch.

"What happened, sweetie?" Mama asks. I tell her everything, about Molly (the mean Candor girl), Christina, the makeup, and Caleb. She doesn't seem angry, not with me, but Papa does.

"Get that crap off her eyes." My eyes widen at his angry voice, his mean words, his temper that I've never seen before.

"Papa-"

"Now!" He growls, barking at Mama. I start to cry again, and she glares at him.

"You're a hypocrite, Andrew," she says, carrying me off to the bathroom. She called him Andrew, and she's never done that before. Today is a day of firsts.

She dips a towel in cold water. "Close your eyes, Beatrice." Gently, she dabs the cloth against my eyelids. I shiver. "Wish we had some makeup wipes," she mutters, probably not meaning for me to hear. She sounds like she knows a lot.

"Mama?"

"Yes, Beatrice?" she replies, rubbing gently. The orange-brown comes off on the cloth, and she sighs in relief.

I tell her what I've been afraid to, because I'm brave now. "I don't like being called Beatrice. It's a Stiff name."

She freezes, and I think there are tears in her eyes. I feel guilty; I didn't want to make Mama cry. Then, suddenly, she smiles with watery eyes. "Yes, I don't think it suits you anymore."

"Christina says I don't have to be called Beatrice."

Mama dips the cloth in water again. "You don't, baby. You can be called whatever you want. All you have to do is wait until you are older." Is Mama telling me to choose somewhere else? Does she know I don't belong in Abnegation? But I do belong here, I think. Or maybe I don't.

"Can you help me come up with a name? I want something that sounds cool, like Tobias." Her eyes harden, and she folds her lips together. But that is only for a second, and she's smiling again.

"Something Dauntless," she says. I nod, because it's true. I want a Dauntless name, something bold, something unique, something that makes me feel alive… but that is a lot of pressure to put on a name.

"Yes, Mama. Something Dauntless."

She thinks for a moment, as if imaging, as if becoming lost in a memory. "Tris," she says, suddenly. "We can call you Tris. Do you like that?"

Tris… "It's perfect, Mama!"

She smiles. "Let's try it out, then." She sticks out her hand — a Dauntless greeting. In Abnegation, we acknowledge by nodding heads. "Hello."

"Hi, my name is Tris." I stick my hand out and shake hers. It feels foreign, strange, but I like it.

I like it a lot.


	3. Chapter Three

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," Caleb says again, the third time, as he leans against my doorframe. I hide my teary cheeks in my pillow, face down on my bed, and swallow the painful lump in my throat. Every time I see his face, I see scrunched up eyebrows, sharp teeth like a monster's, and I think maybe he should be under my bed with the rest of them.

"Go away," I say, my voice small and muffled by the feathery headrest. I know I sound like a baby, but he violated my trust. That's not easy to fix. "I won't forgive you."

Caleb huffs. "That's selfish."

"Shut up." Christina's voice echoes in my head, those very words, and I feel no remorse. I am not allowed to talk to Christina anymore, all because of Caleb. I hate him. Caleb is only eleven months older than me, but he still acts like he's better.

He's stunned, silent for a moment, and then he screams, "Papa!" and runs out of my room. I know he's going to tell on me — what a snitch. I giggle a bit and take my head off the pillow. It was getting hard to breathe anyways, and my breath kind of stinks. I exhale into my palm and lift it to my nose — yep.

I swing my legs over the bed and wait for the incoming talking-to from Papa. More like yelling-at. Not to long after, he shows up at my door.

"Beatrice," he says, his voice low and angry. "What is this your brother is telling me about you telling him bad words?"

I remember what he said to Mama yesterday and think she's right — he's a hypocrite (I looked it up in Caleb's dictionary after dinner). "You said a worse word, Papa."

His jaw locks, and his eyes swim with irritation. "What I say has nothing to do with you." He takes a step towards me, and for a second, as his fists clench and his knuckles turn white, I think he is about to hit me, just like Caleb.

Out of nowhere, Mama grabs his arm, twists it behind his back, and whispers in his ear from behind, "Think about what you are doing, Andrew. Trust is something more delicate than glass." She lets go, and Papa glares at her. He walks out, rubbing his wrist and muttering under his breath. My heart beats in my ears as the door slams behind him, and Mama comes and sits beside me.

"Mama," I cry, and she takes me into her arms. Her fingers run through my hair, allowing the golden curls to fall from the elastic that holds them up. They land softly against my back, and I realize that I love how it feels. I wish I could let them go more often, but I can't in Abnegation.

Mama looks at me then, as if she knows what I'm thinking. "Tris, sweetie," she says, and I smile at the name she calls me. If only Papa could hear. "I know you resent Abnegation. I know you feel like you haven't been able to have a childhood, or any freedom, and you aren't wrong. I don't know what that feels like, but I can imagine." Shock runs through me as what she is saying settles in — my mother was not born an Abnegation.

"You weren't…"

"No." She doesn't explain anymore, but I know I will ask her later. I can't help that I am curious like an Erudite. "Anyway, like I was saying. The parts of Abnegation that you don't like, that make you feel suffocated, those aren't the only things we believe in. Do you remember our manifesto?"

I nod. Mama smiles and takes my hand, and we say it together:

"I will be my undoing If I become my obsession.

I will forget the ones I love If I do not serve them.

I will war with others If I refuse to see them.

Therefore I choose to turn away from my reflection,

To rely not on myself

But on my brothers and sisters,

To project always outward

Until I disappear."

"You see," she continues. "Not looking in a mirror, it's not always literal. Baby, you don't have to sacrifice everything to be selfless. You don't have to strip yourself of every joy, to make it so you hate waking up in the morning, just to fit the criteria of the faction. Yes, it's not the most fun way to live, but I really do believe that it's the most fulfilling. All that said, when the time comes, it's your choice to make how you want to live your life."

"But what about Papa?"

A frown tugs at her lips. "Your father has been selfish lately."

I gasp. "Papa, selfish?"

She nods grimly. "Things have been difficult with the council, and he is taking it out on you. He feels that the last thing we need right now is a bad image for Abnegation." And I am that bad image… she doesn't say it, but it is understood.

Suddenly, she stands up and throws open my closet. "Get dressed, Tris."

I nod and hop off my bed, grabbing a grey dress and some sneakers (guess what colour). Curiosity bursts through me. "Where are we going?" I say as she pulls the dress over my head and guides my arms through my brand new coat. My old one sits in the closet, the one that barely fits me anymore.

"I'm going to show you what Abnegation is really about." She pulls me down the stairs and grabs her coat and a large, heavy-looking bag on the way out. Papa calls out to us, but Mama drags me out the door without answering.

We walk in silence in the dead of night for a while past the uniform grey houses that are small yet standing tall with honour. Each house holds a family full of people whose lives are dedicated to helping others. As we walk along the starlit path, I realize that this is the beauty of Abnegation, and that everything else is just for show. Soon enough — not really, I'm panting, but Mama seems unfazed, even carrying the heavy bag — we reach our destination: the factionless sector.

Even here, the sky is painted a dark blue and the stars are blindingly bright. I think it's taunting, as these people seem to have a future not as bright. But as I look at the sky longer, I realize that there is more darkness than light. A shiver runs down my spine as the air bites my skin like bugs, and I tug my new coat closer.

Along the bricks walls that line the far side of Abnegation buildings, the factionless have made their homes. They are dressed in every colour, mostly grey — which makes sense, considering that almost only the Abnegation give their clothes — but what they have is torn and dull from years of use. On their faces is dirt and blood, and their skin hangs close to bones, no fat to keep them warm, and they seem to have turned purple from the cold.

Mama stops and opens the heavy bag, and inside I can see warm clothing (black, blue, grey) and loafs of fresh bread. I see the gleam in the factionless's eyes as they see us, but they seem to lack the energy to come. So, Mama goes to them. I remember the apple slices in my pocket and follow her, handing them to an older man, white beard stained a brownish colour. He thanks me with his weak smile, more than a few teeth missing, likely knocked out in a fight over food, the ones remaining soiled and yellow; one apple slice pops into his mouth, and he sucks on it, breaking it with his tongue.

We make our way along the walls, handing out food and clothes, but I notice that they are still cold. Finally, we reach a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, with a child who looks my about age. I know from the way the seven-year-old girl holds onto the woman that she is her mother, and I also see the despair in the woman's eyes as her daughter shivers from the freezing wind that pulls at my hair and makes my scalp sting (my hair is still down, and Mama hasn't told me to put it back up — I think even if she did, it would fall back out).

The girl's eyes lock with mine, resigned, like she knows she'll be cold until spring comes, and maybe even then. Determination flares up inside of me as Mama hands them two loafs of bread with sorry eyes (there are no clothes left), and I shrug out of my brand new coat and hand it to the woman. Her eyes flash with surprise, but soon she is thanking me over and over again, and after the coat is zipped tight around the girl, the woman leans down and kisses the ground at my feet. I crouch and gently lift her head, saying, "Please, don't do that. We are all humans."

The woman nods, thanks me and Mama again, and hugs her baby close, watching as she nibbles on a piece of bread. I look up at Mama, who is beaming with pride. She unzips her coat and holds me under her arm so we are both warm, and we walk along the rest of the wall, handing out food.

This is Abnegation, I realize. This feeling inside of me after doing something good, something selfless, without even thinking about it. I am excited to go home and wear my old coat again. I am Abnegation, at least this much, and if I wanted to, I could try to belong there. But I also realize, as the whistle of the ten o'clock train echoes through the night, that I don't want to try to belong somewhere; I just want to belong.

Tiredness weighs down my eyelids, and I struggle to keep them open. Mama notices, and she whispers, "Home is close, Baby. Keep your eyes open." We near the end of the wall, and there is just two more figures in the darkness. One is an elderly man with all of his teeth, a man who seems to be in his final days. His beard is sloppily cut, maybe with a sharp rock, and reaches to the bottom of his neck. There is a scar that runs along the side of his face, deep, twisted, ancient, and a fresh cut along his lip. His eyes are a deep green, but they seem empty, glazed, and the black circles in them are the smallest I've ever seen. His fingers run through the other figure's hair, gentle, caring. Love like a father's, or a grandfather's.

The other is a young boy, maybe eight or nine. His skin is pale, like he never goes into the sun, but there is no dirt on it. Despite that, blood seeps through the back of his shirt, making the grey look black, and his eyes seem guarded, like he lives in a constant state of danger. His features are small, plain, except for his eyes; they are dark blue, like the sky at ten o'clock (now), but there is a little spot of light blue, like in the late afternoon. His hair is cut short… Abnegation hair. He chews, slowly, like he has not enough energy to move his jaw, on a hunk of terribly yellow cheese, the edges sharp like they could cut his tongue.

This boy, with grey clothes and short hair, is not factionless — he is Abnegation. But the way he slouches against the bricks like he knows them, the blood battered on his back, and the emptiness that shrouds him like a mist all suggest otherwise.

Who is this boy?

I glance up at Mama, whose eyes shine with recognition (and tears), and whose lips are parted with shock. A frown becomes my lips as I direct my stare at the boy again, not two years older than I am yet broken somehow, tired like the life has been sucked out of him, and suddenly I feel guilty for crying over Caleb's slap and complaining about being tired. Then, a single word escapes Mama's lips, so quiet I think maybe I heard her wrong, or maybe she didn't even say anything. But then she clears her throat, blinks five times, so quickly that the tears are pushed out of her eyes, and says it again, louder, clearer, and I know I heard her right.

But it's not possible. It doesn't make any sense… I repeat what she said, but this time I don't envy the cool-sounding name of the boy who now has a face in my mind.

"Tobias?"


End file.
